by Tim Stead
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Calaine sighed. “Well, then, I’ll ask you for a name. Who do you think could do the job?”
For Arla there were only two candidates. Taranath and Corin. As much as she would be loath to lose either man she could hardly stand in the way of such an opportunity.
“Radiant Taranath,” she said.
“The Green Isler?”
“He’s not Samaran, it’s true, but he’s a wise head, steady as they come, and he knows the coast up and down. There’s not a port in the South that he hasn’t visited, and folk like him. He can walk into a stranger tavern and come out with a dozen new friends.”
“And his loyalty?”
“I’ve never had cause to question it, but if you insist on a Samaran, then Corin Longday will do. He’s still young, but he’s learning fast, and has a cunning side. I’m not quite sure he’s ready for it but he’s the best I’ve got.”
“And you wouldn’t mind losing either man?”
“Certain I would, and it’s up to them if they take what’s offered, but I hope they won’t.”
Calaine sipped her wine again. “You’re like Darius,” she said. “You say what you think and don’t sugar-coat it. I appreciate that, Arla. Too many people tell me what they think I want to hear.”
“What use is that? It’d be like talking to a mirror.”
“Quite so. Anyway, I’ll think on your two men and let you know what I decide.”
“Best to tell them, not me,” Arla said. “I’ll hear soon enough, and the rest is between you and them.”
“Fair enough.”
It was the end of her audience. A few pleasantries and Arla was out on the city streets again heading back to the lawhouse. Taranath, she believed, would not take the job, even if it was offered. His loyalty was to the law, to the naked concept of justice and not to Samara or its rulers. He would not be tempted by either the money or the status.
Corin, on the other hand, would jump at it. He was ambitious and young enough to take the offer as confirmation of his worth. He would do the job well, she supposed, but Arla worried a little what the job might do to him. And he was green enough for Calaine to mould him, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
She would have to wait and see.
47 The House of Fandakari
Manoran Fandakari stamped into the room muttering under his breath and waving a piece of paper. He looked deeply unhappy. Ingmar stopped reading his book and waited for the complaint. There was always a complaint. The recently elevated master of the House of Fandakari was hardly worthy of the position, but he had been easy to control – still was – even if it meant putting up with his pouting, whining, childish moods.
Eventually the man tired of waiting for Ingmar to ask and slapped the piece of paper down on the table.
“They’ve accused me – me! – of trying to kill the King of Blaye and his bride to be.”
“Well,” Ingmar said. “It’s true. You did.”
“You said that nobody would know. If Belin…”
“Prince Belin? I shouldn’t worry about Belin. Just tell him it’s your ex-wife making mischief and the Samarans gullible enough to believe her. It’s what he’ll want to hear. He’ll believe you. Anyway, he has no love for the Samarans.”
Ingmar had made a careful study of Belin. The prince was not especially clever, but he had a cruel streak, a ruthless character and enough ambition to take him to the throne. He was the rightful heir, after all, and the whole city was waiting for the king to die.
“And tell him you’ll give him five hundred crowns a month as a display of loyalty. Belin is strapped for cash and he’ll find that useful. It’ll lessen the temptation to have you killed and try to steal what you have.”
“Five hundred? Can I afford that?”
Ingmar was impressed that greed could overcome fear so easily in some men.
“For as long as you need to,” he said. Ingmar had brought his own wealth to bear on the house of Fandakari. It lay hidden beneath the trading house like the bulk of an ice island. He could have bought Sarata, and perhaps one day he would. Money was not Ingmar’s game. It was only a tool, like Manoran, like Belin.
“I still don’t understand why we wanted them dead. There were other ways of breaking the alliance – less obvious ways.”
Ingmar was not about to tell his puppet the real reason, and the real plot. It had not mattered whether his assassins had succeeded or failed, but only that the blame should rest with Sarata and Darna. It was a pretext for war, and Ingmar wanted war.
But even so, he had failed utterly. There would be no war. The Free had been unmasked and all motivations had become debatable. The tenuous link between the plot and House Fandakari remained, but it would lead to nothing.
“They say the king is at death’s door,” Manoran said. “They say he will be dead by morning.”
“They say so, do they?” Ingmar knew full well that the king was dying, but he feigned surprise. “I thought he would last another month at least, if not a year.”
“No,” Manoran said, transparently pleased to be the bringer of real news. “They say he weakened this afternoon, and there is no sign of a recovery.”
“Then you must go to Belin at once,” Ingmar said. “He must know that you are on his side, that you may be counted on, before his father dies.”
Manoran frowned at that.
“I suppose that is wise,” he said.
“Indeed, there is no time to be lost.”
The trader fussed around a little, barking commands at the servants, sending for a new coat, then another when the first didn’t quite please him, but he left promptly enough and Ingmar was alone with his book again.
He curled up in his chair and stared at the page, but he didn’t see the words. He saw the past and the future. He saw White Rock in the spring with the snow lingering on the mountain peaks to the west beyond the great windows and the roaring fire he had loved so much. He saw pain and defeat, to which the only possible reply was revenge, and he would have his revenge one way or another.
The difficulty was the sword, the black sword. If he could hold it for an instant, for the briefest moment, his victory would be assured. This world would be his again.
He turned a page and focussed once more on words. He had always loved to read, and now, hidden in flesh, he was the same. He must cultivate patience.
He gestured and a flame kindled on the wick of the lamp by his side. Patience.
He began to read again. After a while he began to smile.
Table of Contents
1 - Jerohal
2 – Two Boats
3 – Rumours of a Wedding
4 – A Dead Man
5 – The Baker’s Tale
6 – The General
7 – Corin
8 – A Meeting
9 – Hekman
10 – A Necessary Journey
11 – The Princess
12 – The Coast Road
13 – Castaway
14 – Pek
15 – The Settlement
16 – The Voyage of the Blackbird
17 – Sharp Eyes
18 – A Contract
19 – Punishment
20 – The Laughing Gull
21 – The House on Conner Lane
22 – Jerohal
23 – The Gull Takes Flight
24 – Blaye
25 – The Poisoner
26 – The Storm
27 – A Gift
28 – Darna
29 – The Assassin’s Path
30 – A Name
31 – Arrest
32 – The Darnese Game
33 – Exclusion
34 – An Old Secret
35 – Burning Boats
36 – Interrogation
37 – The Mage Lord of East Scar
38 – Danger
39 – Ishara
40 – Jinari
41 – Home
43 – The Hunt
44 – The Running Man
45 – The Book
46 – Betrothal
47 – The House of Fandakari
